


Dream of Togetherness (Turned into a Bigger Mess)

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s only so much dignity you can retain when a gaggle of teenagers catch you wearing nothing but sweat pants and an entire bag of flour. Derek has an explanation, a reasonable one, honestly. But it’s easier to growl until they go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream of Togetherness (Turned into a Bigger Mess)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [triedunture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/gifts).



> This started off because laraneia said Derek should be covered in flour like in the Season 2 intro (yeah, it's probably something soul crushingly angst-ridden like ash or whatever). And that segued perfectly into something cute to wish triedunture a very happy birthday with. I hope you enjoy. I'm closing my eyes and la la laing very loudly at the whole idea that I have Sterek baking cookies. Um. Title from The Lucky One by Au Revoir Simone.

There’s only so much dignity you can retain when a gaggle of teenagers catch you wearing nothing but sweat pants and an entire bag of flour. Derek has an explanation, a reasonable one, honestly. But it’s easier to growl until they go away.

They don’t all go away.

Derek decides that trying to brush it off with his hands isn’t working but he keeps trying rather than meeting Stiles’s steady gaze. Stiles, whose steady and penetrating observations have probably worked out exactly has been going on.

“Why didn’t you just buy mix?” Stiles is keeping his distance at least. He probably knows just how much mess Derek had caused.

“It tastes wrong. Just- Not like bad. Just not right.” Derek put the empty bag of flour on the counter beside the scales. At least he hadn’t measured out any of the other ingredients. There’s a haze of flour dust in the air, making Stiles cough a little. But Derek can see him clearly enough as Stiles throws his backpack to the floor just outside the kitchen, tossing his hoodie on top and kicking off his shoes.

“And why weren’t you wearing an apron? Or a-“ Stiles’s tongue apparently curls up in his mouth for a moment before he chokes out “Shirt?” in a higher octave than he started.

“I didn’t want to get my clothes dirty.” Derek isn’t even sure why he is justifying himself to Stiles at this point. Stiles huffs out something that could be a laugh as he crosses the flour coated floor and switches on the tap. He wets one of the dishcloths and throws it against Derek’s chest. There’s a moment where Stiles’s hand and Derek’s chest almost meet but Stiles freezes and turns back to grab another cloth, talking about something that happened at lacrosse practice. Derek listens and cleans the flour off his skin as well as he can. His sweatpants are a lost cause. They were probably already a lost cause. He thinks he might have had these since he was not much older than Stiles is now. They’re familiar and comfortable, much like the sound of Stiles’s inane burble as he wipes down the counter. Derek cleans up the worst of the mess on the floor.

The kitchen, his skin, the counters are essentially flour free when Derek throws his cloth into the sink and stares at it for a long moment. Even though the kitchen is similar, it’s not the same. It’s not like his mom is going to wander in to criticise the mess or Laura will sit up on the counter and test the mixture. He’s got this new pack and he’s even half got Stiles, but it’s not the same.

“My mom couldn’t bake. She’d always use the mix from boxes and pretend. But it was fine.” Stiles prods at the ingredients. “I learned how to make cookies, when she became sick. I needed them for some stupid thing at school and I didn’t want to say, ‘hey, my mom’s in the hospital and she’s not coming home and your cookies can go fuck themselves’ and I didn’t want to bother my dad. They weren’t half bad.”

“I used to make them.” Derek can’t let Stiles admit all that without saying something back. “My mom used to squeeze the flour to check it. And so I did.”

“I like the idea of you baking. It’s like this whole undiscovered facet. Next you’ll be taking up crochet. Or embroidery. And, like, making everyone individualised name plates for their doors or some shit.” Stiles’s eyes are wide with mischief as he looks at Derek.

“I haven’t made cookies since I became the alpha.” That should explain it all.

“And because you’re the alpha now…?” Stiles likes throwing that back into his face, with a pointed roll of his eyes.

Derek flexes his arms. He knows his muscles are bigger. He can feel the strength in them. It’s only a casual movement but he can hear the way Stiles’s pulse ratchets up, the way his breathing seems to catch and stop for a moment. Then he mimes squeezing the flour bag too much. Stiles lets out a shaky laugh. “Your super strength was too much for that poor bag of flour? That’s what you’re seriously telling me?” Stiles’s laugh is more genuine this time but he winds down to just a broad grin before he asks, “You got more flour?”

 

It shouldn’t be this easy, dancing around each other, arguing over how many drops of vanilla extract and the correct way to roll balls of dough. They even snicker over the balls until Derek remembers he doesn’t really do that and Stiles spends a long ten minutes outlining all the ways hanging around with teenagers has made Derek more immature than them.

The cookies are soon spread out on brand new cooling trays over the brand new counter tops. Crumbs fall to the brand new floor when Stiles tries to eat a too hot cookie, burning his fingers and the tip of his tongue. He’d even made Derek use the brand new oven mitt to take the baking sheets out of the oven.

There’s a moment when Derek has nothing to do but wait until they cool before he can transfer them to a plate and take them through to where he can hear the others arguing over something on the TV he’d hooked up last week. He hadn’t switched it on since then. He liked the silences in this house which is new and yet familiar and almost the same. Stiles is watching him too closely for comfort.

Then Stiles is standing way too close. This is brand new too – Stiles voluntarily this close and near and smelling like the cookies and the pack. Derek has to swallow down his urge to push Stiles away. It’s like there’s a chainsaw buzzing on the very edges of his hearing, ever nerve on edge and he’s not entirely sure why.

“You’ve got some-“ Stiles makes a broken-off sound, half distressed and raises up his hand to brush at Derek’s hair, at his cheek. “You’re going to need to shower.” There’s another one of those heart stutters and Stiles leaves his hand curled around Derek’s cheek for a long moment. Derek’s hand came to rest on Stiles’s hip almost of its own accord. They stood there and Derek drank in the way Stiles’s pupils seemed to widen and darken, the way his breath quickened, the way the warmth of Stiles’s body seemed to melt something cold he’d been holding on to.

The kiss, when it came, isn’t hard. There weren’t teeth or walls or broken bones. Any of the times Derek had imagined this, he’d thought there might be, before he fell to his knees and sucked down Stiles’s cock or… This kiss is soft, lips barely touching at first, then pressing together like they’d been doing this for years and years. This is easy, Stiles’s hand in his hair, his hand pressing into the curve at the small of Stiles’s back and the smell of home and chocolate chip cookies in the air.

 

It doesn’t stay entirely innocent.

Scott’s anguished cry of “Not in front of the cookies” is enough to break them apart. For now.


End file.
